


Skirmishes in the Wilds

by TheArrow



Series: A Tale of Two Champions [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Friendship is Magic, Gen, Modded Skyrim, Skooma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:34:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21525280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheArrow/pseuds/TheArrow
Summary: In late Late Sun's Height, 4E 192, somewhere between Cyrodiil and Hammerfell, and Inigo and Aranwen have been thrown into their first impossible situation together.
Series: A Tale of Two Champions [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1311728
Kudos: 8





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Housekeeping Notes: 
> 
> This is indeed a direct continuation of my other short piece [Short Straws](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11254905), which introduces both Inigo and Aranwen. As such this takes place before the "canon" time period that ESV Skyrim takes place in. Whereas Short Straws is primarily from Inigo's point of view (sort of), Skirmishes will be following Aranwen's perspective. Aranwen is described using the English gender-neutral pronouns "they", "their", and "them" here.
> 
> Inigo the Brave is the labour of love and creation of Gary or Smartbluecat on the Nexus modding forums. I don't know what future Gary has planned for Inigo, hence why I'm writing about events that take place before the game of Skyrim properly begins in 4E 201. I am borrowing the character with a lot of love and admiration.

**Late Sun's Height, 4E 192**  
**The borderlands between Cyrodiil and Hammerfell**

Aranwen steadied their bow and exhaled. Their chest relaxed, so did their fingers, as a taught arrow ruthlessly shot into a hare downwind.

Their first thought, after the satisfaction of a successful hunt, goes immediately to their friend back at camp. Inigo would appreciate a proper meal, after three weeks of increasingly smaller dry rations. 

The wood elf approached the dead hare, carefully making their way down the hill and thanking Hircine for their generosity with a short prayer.  
_We honour the hare that feeds us tonight, may its spirit live on within us. Blessings of Hircine upon it._

It took less than a minute for Aranwen to attach the limp body of the hare to a belt on their hip, hidden under a grey cloak. They had at least a few hundred paces until they would reach the rest of the mercenaries. By their estimate, Aranwen had less than three days before they would have to inevitably split with the mercenaries and make their way north, and then east. Rol the Forceful, who was running this band with his less-than-honourable second in command, Eevas the Onlooker, would be furious when he discovered Aranwen’s desertion. But, if they were successful, it would be many long years before they stepped foot back into either Cyrodil and Hammerfell again — and it was extremely doubtful Rol would go out of his way to track them down. 

Aranwen paused a second, sparing a glance north. Low brush and scattered parched grasses, and beyond, an unseen mountain range. And, after that lay cold, inhospitable, wild Skyrim. It would be all too easy to lose oneself there. And more importantly, it had now become paramount to lose the Dominion, as well. 

Yet until they reached Skyrim safely, Aranwen was in limbo, counting down the days, and trying to go unnoticed. Though, less than a week ago, that had all changed when they had shared a night’s watch with a curiously blue Khajiit name Inigo.

It was spending time with Inigo that pushed Aranwen to hunt instead of relying on the occasional foraging of nuts, berries, and the odd Rock Warbler egg. As an elf, Aranwen could survive for a long time without proper food, but Inigo…

It was clear, at least to Aranwen, that the Khajiit was in withdrawal, and suffering badly despite his stoic nature. Three weeks into this hard march, the band’s supply of alcohol and Skooma was dwindling down to mere drops. Fighting had increased in the mornings and evenings. Avoiding scrutiny was more difficult. Which made this quick escape to hunt a hare all the more ill-advised. 

But Aranwen’s worry for the Khajiit had overruled better judgement. They knew all too well how important it was to eat something fresh when the body and mind was fighting itself like this. As rations and supplies dwindled along with its alcohol stores, Aranwen knew that hunting was a surefire way to attract far more attention than strictly necessary. 

Aranwen rearranged the hare so that it was completely hidden under their cloak, and wondered what exactly it was about Inigo that prompted them to risk their own neck. 

* * *

The band of thirty or so mercenaries stopped for the night in long-withered ruins overlooking a ravine that marked a natural border between Cyrodiil and Hammerfell. It was in this changing, increasingly wooded and jagged landscape that Aranwen planned to escape the band before the group reached the Redguard city, but for now they had a friend to share a meal with and bid goodbye to during the night. 

Hundreds of years ago, this had been a sprawling outpost, though most of the buildings and tunnels carved into and around the rift had long since fallen to ruin. Still, the ruins offered partial shelter, a good overview of the surrounding lands, and made for an excellent stopping point to wait out the night. Aranwen carefully volunteered Inigo and themselves for another watch. Eevas didn’t think twice about agreeing. The mercenaries set up their camp and grumpily chewed on dry and oversalted meat. The camp was mostly sleeping cots, few had bothered to carry tents, even as they had planned to come so far north. 

Inigo wasn’t sleeping much these days and the watch would give Aranwen the opportunity to share the hare with him later without raising suspicions. The smell of cooked rabbit would be too hard to conceal, so Aranwen hoped Inigo would accept raw meat. It was how many wood elves liked their meat anyways, and Aranwen knew that some Khajiit had warmed, so to speak, to the practice. They sniffed the air as they set down their things to prepare for the watch, taking note of the cloudy sky and wind. The weather was cooler than it had been yesterday, and cooler still since the day before. 

Inigo joined them just before the sun ducked down below on the horizon, speaking in a low voice: “Eevas tells me that I have volunteered to take watch with you.”

Aranwen smiled, a touch ruefully. “I probably should have asked, but I hoped you wouldn’t mind keeping me company.”

“Not at all, friend. It is always a joy to spend time with you.”

Aranwen’s smiled. They hadn’t been called ‘friend’ in… a long time. Every time Inigo said so, it warmed something long-quiet within them.

A tiny, smokey fire was stoked. Darkness fell. Rol the Forceful convened the mercenaries, including Inigo and Aranwen from where they were, to listen as he explained what their first job in Elinhir would be. There was apparently a young warlord who wanted to take over his uncle’s lands, and he was getting all the outside help he could muster. The band would have to pick up the pace to make it on time to join the raids and get paid in full. 

After lights out was called — and Eevas shouted for everyone to shut up for the fourth time — silence descended on the camp. Inigo and Aranwen, at their post near the edge of the cliff, sat in silence, for a long while listening to nothing other than snoring and the odd spark from the coals. 

“It’s starting to get cold out here at night.” Inigo spoke, rubbing his hands together. 

Another sign of his ailing mind and body. 

“It’ll only get worse from here. It’s been a cold summer, and as we climb further north we’ll start seeing frost in the early morning as well.”

“That does not bother me so much, as it must you. It must be strange, to have no fur to keep warm.” 

Aranwen smiled. “Yet to me, it must seem cumbersome to never be able to take off that fur coat.” 

“It perfectly well-suited to all seasons, my friend.”

As the quiet throughout the camp sustained itself, and Aranwen heard more snores joining the fray, they reached under their cloak, and pulled out the hare. 

Inigo’s eyes widened. 

“When in Mundus did you have time to get that today?”

“I still have to skin and clean it, but I hope you understand if we don’t roast it.”

He nodded, his eyes never leaving it. 

“I noticed you were out of food this morning,” Aranwen admitted quietly, by way of explanation.

Skinning was quick work, though without adequate light and proper tools, messier than they would have preferred. But the hare smelled good still and Aranwen was also excited to eat something other than nuts or the odd egg. 

“My friend, this is a feast, and I don’t know how to repay you.” Inigo spoke quietly as he held a piece of hare in his hands in wonder. 

“It won’t keep much longer, so we have to eat it now. Thank the gods for the cool weather, otherwise this would have spoiled long before we could have a moment’s peace.” 

He didn’t have to be told twice, and so Inigo ate quietly, and quickly. 

They got through most of the hare without speaking. 

Eventually, Inigo began to hum a soft little tune, careful not to get too loud. Aranwen let him play out the melody several times before speaking in turn. 

“If we weren’t supposed to stay quiet, I’d ask for a song.” 

“It would be the least I can do, after such a meal. Thank you.”

“It was nothing, Inigo. I was hungry too.”

“I am still very grateful. But we should be careful with the bones. Should we bury them or burn them?”

“Bury. Less smoke, less smell.”

Inigo nodded, gathering what was left of the hare by the fire. 

“And tomorrow, we enter Hammerfell.”

“Indeed.”

Inigo hesitated, as if he almost decided to stop speaking but changed his mind: “Does this mean you are leaving us soon?” 

Before Aranwen could answer, an orc appeared behind Inigo and knocked him aside, bellowing: “You miserable, stinking maggots! I thought I smelled meat. YOU’VE BEEN HOLDING OUT ON US!” 

Axe in hand, the orc was breathing furiously down at them. Aranwen scrambled back, away from the dim light of the coals, and readied their bow. Inigo, just recovering from the shock, drew an impressive-looking, etched ebony sword and stood. Despite the near lack of light, Aranwen could tell that his hands were shaking, a slight tremor running down the length of the sword. 

Their mind raced. The camp was likely awake now — or would be within seconds. And Inigo was not in any shape for such a ridiculously mismatched fight. 

“And talk of leaving? You think you can just desert us?” The orc did not lower his voice. All around them footsteps and the sharp sounds of metal. Someone called out, shedding his sleepy stupor: “Whose attackin’ us?” And Aranwen could hear Eevas spitting curses in the dark. 

“Fucking traitors,” someone bellowed. 

“I knew there was something wrong with that blue cat!” And that sounded a heck of a lot like Eevas. 

It was worse than Aranwen had feared.

It was the orc who attacked first, breaking the awkward but tense standoff around the fire. Inigo intervened without hesitation, a harsh ring of metal echoing by the side of the fire. The camp was really awake now, and shouting and screaming begun in earnest, though few could really tell what was happening. As Inigo and the orc fought, Aranwen couldn’t get a clear shot. Eevas and two other humans surged out of the darkness, surrounding him. Someone kicked dirt into the small, sunken fire to put it out, temporarily blinding everyone as their eyes tried to adjust to the total lack of light. Thankfully, the sky was cloudy and there was no light from the stars to give away their position, but Aranwen knew they would have to act quickly to get out of this mess, or die surrounded. They emphatically hoisted their bow back over their shoulder and rushed forward to grab their pack off the ground. There was no question of leaving Inigo alone, but there was also no way of communicating what seemed like a truly desperate and probably terrible plan. Without hesitation, Aranwen jumped into the fray. They dodged a swing of someone’s sword, and was able to grab a fistful of Inigo’s cloak as he parried Eevas’ dagger away.

“Hold on, Inigo!” 

“Hold on to what!?”

Tugging fiercely — and praying just as hard — Aranwen knocked Inigo off his feet and pulled him back over the edge and into the black ravine. The shrieks and yells that echoed above them were horrific: “Traitors!” someone roared after them. “I want that Khajiit’s pelt, you dogs!” Eevas commanded.

By some miracle of the gods, the (at minimum) twenty-five-foot fall did not kill Aranwen or Inigo, who somehow had neither let go of his sword nor fallen upon it. Aranwen rolled over on their forearms and coughed up dust and sand. They were not seriously injured, but they had a feeling they would be limping tomorrow. If they got out of this mess alive, that is. The shrieking and roaring above didn’t cease. Aranwen noted, as their eyes adjusted to the darkness, that at least one arrow had been shot into the ravine after them. It had missed both targets by a wide margin, and Aranwen guessed whoever it was had no interest in losing more arrows. 

Inigo was still on his back, though he seemed awake and alert. 

“You,” he said with some difficulty, “friend, are one crazy elf.” 

“We need to move. It won’t take them long to find a way down here, and I am not itching for a rematch.” 

They scrambled to their feet, and hugged the edge of the ravine, heading east. With luck they would find a way out on the northern side of the ravine first.

Twice, they heard the sharp, loud echoes gain on them as their pursuers began climbing down the narrowing chasm. When it seemed the voices were getting dangerously close, Inigo wordlessly pointed out a scalable part along the northern cliffside. Aranwen nodded in response. Both of them carefully began to climb, hoping silence and the cover of darkness would keep them out of sight and hide their escape. 

The ascent was brutal on weary limbs. Out of the corner of one eye, Aranwen could see the flickering light of the mercenary band’s torches approaching. They had minutes at most.

The gods saw fit to keep both of them alive a little longer. Aranwen and Inigo scaled the wall without slipping or dislodging any large rocks. Once at the very top, Inigo turned back to watch the ravine, and let loose a whisper: “They deserve to be showered with arrows from here, now that the tables has turned. Honourless cretins.”

“We should not give away our position.” In any case, they had no means to shoot: their bow had not survived the fall into the ravine and was broken, and Inigo only had his blade with him. 

“Then let us go.” 

That night was one of the hardest of Aranwen’s long life. Truly, it was brutal for the both of them. But Aranwen refused to slow down until they’d covered a distance of at least 10 leagues under the protection of darkness. Several times Inigo would stumble, out of breath and Aranwen would convince him to keep going, just a little further. By the time they stopped for good, half-hidden in a small grove of trees, just before dawn, Inigo was so badly winded that he simply collapsed onto the ground, without even bothering to remove his gear or weapons before passing out. The foliage was thin and the trees spread apart, and they were easily visible to any watchful eyes on the plain. Aranwen was counting on the mercenaries having long lost their trail, or losing interest. But pushing Inigo any further was out of the question. Not that they could feel their own feet anymore, in any case.

Aranwen slid to the forest floor, back against the trunk of a tree, listening intently. The soft noises of the countryside awakening with the increasing daylight did little to soothe their nerves. Truthfully, they wouldn’t feel ‘safe’ until they crossed into Skyrim. They would probably never truly feel safe again, but they had no other choice but to rest. 

Within minutes, despite fighting against it, they slipped into a troubled but deep sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical and Mythological Notes:
> 
>  **Hircine** : The Daedric Prince of the Hunt. Also a bit of a shapeshifter.  
>  **Mundus** : The plane of reality that encompasses Nirn, and Tamriel. Essentially, "What in Mundus?" == "What in the universe?" == "What in the world?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Late Sun's Height, 4E 192**  
**The northeast corner of Hammerfell, near the bordering Dragontail Mountains**

It was past midday when Aranwen opened their eyes to the grey light of day. They coughed the sleep from their throat, mouth paper dry. An awful taste of chalk, dust and sand lingered on their tongue, an abrupt reminder that they had slept on the ground and that they were very, very thirsty. They reached for their water-skin, but it was nowhere to be found.

That was far from the only thing missing from Aranwen’s person. Their extra dagger was gone, as well as the coinpurse carrying what was left of their Septims. It had probably gotten loose during their jump into the ravine, but they’d had a great deal other things on their mind at the time.   
Aranwen cursed as they stretched out their wooden limbs, not yet feeling courageous enough to stand. They took stock of every sound around them — if the gods had any mercy there would be a stream nearby.

A hoarse cough coming from the brush startled the elf and reminded Aranwen that they weren’t alone.

A horrible thought seized them. The two of them had been friendly for weeks, but Aranwen didn’t know Inigo. A few kind words over a few nights’ watches didn’t count for much, did it? Out in the wilds, could Inigo really be trusted? Mind racing, Aranwen’s eyes were drawn to their split and broken bow. In a way, this situation was entirely of Aranwen’s making, and they didn’t know if the Khajiit was of a nature to hold that kind of thing against someone.

Inigo walked into the clearing, humming a low song just under his breath. Either he saw no clear danger of attracting unwanted attention with his song, or he didn’t care. It took a moment for Aranwen to realise what he was carrying — a deer, dead, slung over his shoulders.

Seemed he was in better sorts than Aranwen right just then.

They wobbled to their feet, feeling mostly gratitude despite the pain that came with standing. When was the last time they’d run ten leagues in a single night?

“Ah, you are awake.” Inigo’s voice lacked it’s usual cheerfulness, tinged as it was with exhaustion. But there was nothing unfriendly in his tone. Aranwen approached, and inspected the carcass he dropped to the ground.

“You’ve been rather busy.”

“Luck more than anything. I found this little guy while looking for a private spot to urinate.”

Aranwen blinked. The deer had been shot — and it seemed Inigo had his own bow, a detail that had completely escaped them last night. This was good news, as Aranwen’s own bow had not survived the fall into the ravine the previous night.

Inigo was also collecting sticks from a pile of old branches he’d evidently gathered earlier. Aranwen was thoroughly impressed with how much they’d gotten done while they’d slept, dead to the world.

“The wood is pretty rotted, we’ll have a hard time keeping it lit,” Aranwen spoke, a medium-sized branch that fell apart between their fingers as they picked it up. 

“Indeed. You wouldn’t happen to have a talent for Destruction magic, my elven friend?” 

“Sheogorath’s balls,” Aranwen swore, a little sheepish. “I nearly forgot.” Their own magic had completely slipped their mind. 

Aranwen was far from an Adept at any kind of magic. But it was hard to live as long as they had without having spent a little bit of time experimenting with the magic that came easily to many of the elves of Tamriel. And, they remembered with bone-deep relief, while conjuring fire was one thing, they would also be able to conjure ice, and let it melt into water. The elf was still incredibly thirsty, and their head was pounding from what was likely the early effects of dehydration. 

Inigo nodded. “You get the fire going, I’ll start getting this one ready to eat.”

No more needed to be said. 

They got to work. 

* * *

Without salt or spices, the lean deer meat was tasteless, but Inigo and Aranwen were so hungry the venison tasted better than the finest meals served in the best public houses of the Imperial City. 

Aranwen loathed to linger where they were, but they both agreed to keep to the small copse of trees for the rest of the afternoon and into the evening. Aranwen was quite obviously limping, and while Inigo was doing marginally better physically, his head was pounding with a fierce headache. Night would offer them protection from unwanted eyes in the mostly sparse landscape, and waiting would offer them a few more precious hours to rest. Though Aranwen seriously doubted the mercenaries had been able to follow their trail out of the long ravine, it was still risky to wait for the cover of nightfall before moving.

“So, far be it from me to sound ingrate, my friend,” Inigo said evenly, once they had worked through most of the venison, and Aranwen was idly licking a slowly melting cube of ice from between their fingers. “But we must talk. I was rather counting on that gold promised by Rol and Eevas to each of us in his company. And to find more work in Hammerfell.”

Aranwen tossed the half-melted icecube into the bushes behind them and wiped their hands on their breeches, before admitting: “I have put you in a difficult position.”

“Well, that’s done now.”

“I should have been more careful, I am sorry about that at least.” Aranwen offered by way of apology.

“To dwell is of little use, my friend.” 

“I’m going to Skyrim. Come with me,” they offered quietly, interrupting the Khajiit’s silence. “Together, we’ll have a much easier time getting across the Little Dragontails and then into Falkreach.” 

Inigo sighed, “There are stories that come over the Jerall mountains of Jarls locking out elves and Khajiit from the cities. I’ve heard nothing but nightmares. Not even mentioning the whole Markarth disaster, or what’s happened with the Dunmer.” 

“I know, Inigo. But the Dominion’s hold is yet weak in Skyrim, and no other danger compares.” Aranwen sighed, raising their eyes to meet Inigo’s gaze under his furrowed brow. “And it’s no better here, not truly. Cyrodiil hasn’t been a real refuge for nonhumans for near ten years now. And I cannot stay in Hammerfell with the Dominion at its neck.”

Inigo stood quiet a moment, considering his words.

“My friend, if we are to put our trust in each other, I believe I have the right to know what it is you are running from. The Aldmeri don’t hunt one of their own — and by that I mean an elf — without reason.”

“It’s a long story.”

“We have quite literally nothing but time.”

Aranwen looked up to the grey and cloudy sky. The sun would follow its path downwards soon. They really should be getting on the move, despite the menstruous ache running through their entire body.

But a bit of honesty was probably the least Aranwen could give the Khajiit.

“All right. I will start from the beginning. I come from a small outpost on the Abecean Sea, and unlike most elves I spent my childhood away from the woods, and rather in the waves and shores. Mostly, my memories from before Valenwood bowed to the Dominion are simple, easy ones, filled with light, yet it wasn’t to last.”

Inigo settled comfortably against a tree, and pulled out a flask, though it was quite empty. Aranwen was relieved to see it — it would be far easier to transport water in a flask than to have to wait for summoned ice to melt.

“I think it was…different, depending on where you lived in the province. Traders and those with links to Cyrodiil and beyond were suddenly more than suspect. My parents were fishermen — and that is an incredibly unusual occupation amongst Bosmer. But what was even more unusual was their deaths.” 

Inigo raised his eyes, and Aranwen could feel his gaze. She kept hers fixed on the horizon beyond the clearing, at the plains that led back to the Colovian wastes and beyond. Somewhere, far to the south, was Valenwood. And that little outpost where Aranwen’s parents had build their trading post at sea.

“I was… let’s say… strongly discouraged from investigating or even speaking about their deaths, and strongly encouraged to join up in the Aldmeri-allied forces that the Dominion was then packing along the border with Cyrodiil. But I had grown up surrounded by creatures and mer and men from all corners of Tamriel. I was a poor soldier. And…“ 

Aranwen closed their eyes.

“A long, long story short, eventually the full extent of my thorough disobedience was discovered. The Thalmor eventually decided that I was to be eliminated. I was captured and meant to be returned to the Isle. The crux of the issue was that I had never let go of investigating the deaths of my parents, and I had stumbled upon nasty secrets that could seriously damage the reputation of prominent members of the Aldmeri hierarchy.” 

Aranwen slowly allowed a little bit of frost magic to pool between their fingers. Within moments the ice melted into water, and they drank from their cupped hands before continuing. 

“An old, old friend sacrificed himself to aid my escape. I flew to Cyrodiil, but found the reception frostier than I could even imagine. Something about all the wood and high elves defecting to the Empire — pure propaganda, but commoners weren’t helpful when I turned up coinless and half-starving at their doors. I kept to the wilds and evaded capture during the worst of the war, and led a quiet life in the east, for a while anyways. By a strange trick of fate, I was even serving in the Imperial legion as a scout, and even turned spy for a few months near the end. Then the White-Gold Concordat was signed. After nearly a hundred years without the need to sleep with one eye open, and once again no matter where I turned the nightmares of my past were back. The Aldmeri have long memories. And an even longer reach.”

“The agreement was signed nearly twenty years ago,” Inigo was scratching the back of his neck. “I always forget that elves live for so long. Even you little woodland ones.” 

Aranwen sighed. 

“So here I am, moving north. Skyrim has wildnerness and fewer people, even if they’re not exactly friendly. Outrunning the Thalmor is not unimaginable, there.”

They sat for a few long minutes, Aranwen staring at the ground, Inigo’s eyes somewhere on the eastern horizon. A song from a thrush in the bushes rang out, punctuating the silence. 

“Well, I have never been to Skyrim. I have heard tales of Falkreath and the Rift as particularly beautiful, and I imagine there will be other mercenary bands I will be able to get work with.”

Aranwen let out a breath they hadn’t realised they had been keeping. 

“I would relish the company through the mountains. I don’t exactly know what it will look like. I have vague instructions on how to get through the Dragontails on foot and into Falkreath, but it is always safer to attempt a crossing with help, especially if we will not be following known paths.” 

“It is unfortunate the weather so cold already,” Inigo sighed. “It will make hunting and foraging difficult.” 

“On the bright side, on the slim chance we are being followed, either by the Dominion or Rol’s minions, their attempt to cross after us will fail.” 

They packed up their meagre camp at twilight, but as they were rather low on supplies, that mostly meant hiding all evidence of the fire and half-burying what was left of the deer Inigo had found. They folded as much of the cooked meat into whatever clean cloth they had to spare, but it wasn’t much. They would have to rely on forage and hunting, and in all likelihood that meant they had more than a few hungry nights ahead.

They left the now cleaned-up clearing in single file at the fall of night, rarely speaking as they slipped back into the wilds, heading towards the source of the sun’s very last triumphant ray. They lit no torches — they had no torches — trusting their eyes would adjust in the dark. And they heard little, the cool air quieting both the buzz of insects and birdsong, apart from the soft patter of their feet along the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Historical Notes:
> 
>  **Markarth Incident** : Taking advantage of the Empire's preoccupation with the Great War, in 4E 174, a Forsworn leader named Madanach (also known as the King in Rags) led the uprising to drive the Nords from power in the Reach. According to historians, this brief period of Reachman independence was peaceful, with only the cruelest Nord landowners being put to death, and the nascent kingdom made overtures seeking formal recognition from the Empire. But it wasn't to last more than two winters: Ulfric Stormcloak, at the behest of Jarl Igmund and son of the previously deposed Jarl, conquers the Reach, firmly and horrifically returning it to Nord control. While it's been almost two decades since that conflict, the Reach is still in shambles by 192, with horror stories of what the Nords have done to nonhumans and non-Nords having reached many farflung corners of the Cyrillic empire, hence why Inigo here deems it worth mentioning. 
> 
> **White-Gold Concordat** : Signed in 4E 175, roughly two decades before the events of this fic. While officially, the treaty between the Dominion and the Cyrillic empire was to put an end to the Great War, unofficially the treaty was nothing more than a stay of execution, allowing the Dominion to gather all its assets before the coup de grace that would end the Empire once and for all. Hammerfell, however, refused to accept the terms of the White-Gold Concordat, and continued to resist the Thalmor. This forced Titus Mede to officially renounce Hammerfell as a province of the Empire in order to preserve the peace stipulated in the treaty. Viewing this as a betrayal, Hammerfell became an independent state, and managed to fight the Dominion to a standstill, culminating in the signing of the Second Treaty of Stros M'Kai five years later in 4E 180, which resulted in all Aldmeri forces withdrawing from Hammerfell. Hammerfell thus became an independent, if devastated, nation. Diplomatic relations between Hammerfell and the Empire remain strained to this day, explaining why there are warlords and bandits in Hammerfell recruiting in neighbouring provinces to take advantage of the still not-recovered nation. 
> 
> I know I promised this would be a three-parter but I think I would like to return to Inigo's POV and flesh out their journey through the mountains together a littler more — in particular it would be interesting to see them start to truly trust each other, and there is still the shadow of Inigo's skooma addiction to be dealt with (if I understand from my own character notes from my last playthrough with Inigo, this is roughly around the time it's at its worse in terms of how it provokes Inigo into uncharacteristic behaviour). Also note that I'm not strictly following Inigo's "canon" but rather following it broad strokes, as Gary/Smartbluecat himself has left quite a bit of leeway in how you can interpret Inigo's past relationship with the Dragonborn before the events of TESV. 
> 
> If you have read so far, you are a gem, and you have my gratitude.


End file.
